


Spring Dance

by ChampagneSly



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-17
Updated: 2013-04-17
Packaged: 2017-12-08 18:39:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/764715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChampagneSly/pseuds/ChampagneSly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Romantic fluff set in a nebulous time-period, but one that would involve castles, gardens, and Norway's purple dress thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spring Dance

Denmark finds him hiding in one of the long, often abandoned hallways, ensconced in a window seat with his feet tucked up beneath the folds of his tunic and a faraway expression on his face. There’s a secret, Denmark thinks, hidden somewhere in the rare hint of Norway’s smile.

As ever, Denmark wants to kiss that expression until Norway returns to him, shares the secret that makes him smile, and gives him a little more of his attention than a blandly murmured,

“What is it you want, Denmark?”

“Ah…um…” Denmark hesitates, hoping to distract Norway from his lack of a good answer with a happy smile and outstretched arms.

As ever, Norway does not come when beckoned, leaves Denmark standing in awkwardly empty embrace.   

Denmark hadn’t really thought of anything more specific than _“you”_ when he had set out on this quest to retrieve his waylaid Norway, hadn’t thought that perhaps Norway would need more inducement than _him_ to come away.  But in the sunshine that banished the shadows of a drafty castle and painted Norway in colors of a gentle gold, he finds excuse enough to try and coerce Norway from his solitude.

“I want you to walk the gardens with me!” Denmark declares, stepping forward to circle his fingers around Norway’s  wrist. Norway’s gaze remains impassive so Denmark presses his thumb over a heartbeat’s steady hum and cajoles, “The weather is very fine. Too fine to admire through window panes.”

“Perhaps,” Norway allows, his secret smile widening just enough to permit Denmark’s brash and laughing kiss.

“The sun will warm your face and your heart! Nothing like blue skies and a gentle breeze to make you feel glad!” Denmark promises as he tugs Norway to his feet, his own heart performing a strange galloping trick when Norway twists his wrist to slip their fingers together so Denmark can embrace this small part of him as they walk the silent length of the hall.

They drift slowly through the palace, Denmark’s effusions on the beauty of his springtime garden echoing off stone walls and brightening the too-often dim chambers of his castle. He imagines that Norge can hear his pleasure at the unexpected sweetness of a rough palm pressed against his own calloused skin. The memory of earning those scars and burns by the sword and shield makes him smile, makes him want to raise Norway’s hand to his lips and kiss each remembered wound.

They reach the door and Norway murmurs so softly Denmark almost loses the words among his enthusiastic chatter.

“Perhaps I already am.”

“Already are what, Norge?” Denmark asks, giving into the temptation to scrape his teeth over Norway’s knuckles.  

Norway blinks into the sunlight as they emerge from the shadows, his eyes lit very blue when he says,

“Glad.”

~~

Later after they’ve ambled through forests and between hedgerows, Denmark pulls Norway against his side, tumbles them both to the grassy banks of the river-moat and laughs:

“I’m glad to learn that you are glad, Norge.”

Norway tosses a fistful of green blades into his face and mocks, “And I am saddened that you are still such a fool.”

“But a happy fool,” Denmark declares, wrapping an arm around Norway’s waist and tickling his chin with a piece of Norway’s recent weapon just to watch the irritated snapping of Norway’s gaze.

An elbow lodges itself in his side, forces wheezing, unrepentant laughter from his lungs. Norway’s finger traces the corner of his smile, pulls at his skin until Denmark’s grin is stretched wide and ridiculous.

“Yes, always that.”

Norway’s voice is cool but his mouth is not, the sting of his kiss hot and rough like sunburn. Springtime blossoms and Denmark parts his lips, catches the edge of Norway’s secret gladness with the tip of his tongue, holds it close and dear with the cup of his palm against Norway’s cheek.

The kiss deepens and lingers, playful and indulgent in a way that Denmark has missed for many weeks and months. He cards Norway’s hair between his fingers, laughs when Norway bites his bottom lip and pinches his side, tempering his affection with that little bit of violence Denmark adores. Contentment rumbles from his chest, up his throat and passes between the press of their mouths, disappears into the answering hum of Norge’s enjoyment. The kiss lingers until Denmark’s lips are wet and red, his smile bitten and licked to a plumpness that would give them away should they be caught wasting away the afternoon tangled up in one another.

“What has made you so glad?” Denmark asks, watching the slow opening of half-dazed eyes when he rolls Norway beneath him to kiss the flush that has spread down the inviting slope of his throat. “Will you tell me?”

“Why do you wish to know?” Norway’s grass-stained fingers tangle in his hair and bends his knees to bracket Denmark’s hips and bare his legs for all the blue sky to see.

The hot, slick press of Norge’s mouth deprives him of the chance to answer, distracting Denmark with desire. He toys with the hem of Norway’s tunic, slides it higher so he can trace patterns over hidden skin, so he can appreciate the many benefits of a manner of dress that lets him touch with so easily. Norway’s hips arch lazily, roll into teasing hands that oblige the unspoken request for more.

“I want to know so I can give whatever it is to you always,” Denmark murmurs, nuzzling Norway’s cheek and kissing behind his ear. “I like you most when you’re happy.”

“You like me all the time.” Norway retorts, but his lips still curve upwards as Denmark brings his hand from beneath Norway’s skirts to be wet by their tongues.

“I _love_ you all the time. ” Denmark corrects, nipping at Norway’s mouth until false disdain has shifted once more into satisfaction. He slips his hand between parted thighs, curls slick fingers around Norway and strokes, catching Norway’s gasp in a kiss. Arms wind around his neck, hold him so close it is difficult to more than shift his wrist in short, soft little jerks that have Norway sighing and shivering despite the afternoon’s warmth. Denmark watches the play of pleasure on Norway’s face, strokes him with one hand and traces the flutter of his throat with the other. Norway opens his mouth as Denmark smiles and whispers, “But I would make you happy all the time. If I could.”

Norway’s eyes close, back arching from the grass into the steadiness of Denmark’s embrace as they kiss. Denmark kisses him deeply, takes his time because gentle moments such as these are almost as rare as the way Norway mumbles his name and laughs when Denmark tickles beneath his knee before sliding down a heaving chest to take Norway in his mouth. There is no time for him to take with this, because Norway tumbles out of control, salt-slick and trembling, within moments of the first touch of Denmark’s lips.

“Tell me, Norge.” Denmark asks again, crawling up Norway’s body to rest his ear over the hammering of Norway’s heart.  Norway makes a feeble gesture to reach for his breeches but Denmark pins his wrist in the grass, laces their fingers together and mutters, “Tell me now and save that for later.”

“Turning me down?” Norway grumbles breathlessly, thumb brushing idly over Denmark’s knuckles.

Denmark props his chin on Norway’s chest, smiles as he says, “Never.”

“Foolish.”

“Perhaps,” Denmark concedes readily enough, shifting forward to kiss the point of Norway’s chin. “But happier for it.”

Norway shakes his head and drags Denmark into as kiss that tastes of a hesitant sweetness. Denmark lets him take what answers he will from the slide of his lips and the twining of their tongues.

“Times of peace,” Norway says when they break apart for breath.

“Hmm?” Denmark stills, touches a finger to the upturn of Norway’s nose and wonders if he will ever be anything other than lovely.

The lovely nose wrinkles with what Denmark would guess is exasperation. “Times of peace make me glad.”

Denmark kisses the tip of the nose that mocks him. “What else?”

“Iceland growing stronger.” Norway’s thumb traces the ridge of his brow. “The promise of a good harvest. Fresh strawberries.”

“I’ll pick you some for dinner. Or maybe I’ll feed ‘em to you in bed.” Denmark promises with a grin. Norway rolls his eyes but the secret of his smile remains, a faint and gentle thing that Denmark loves so dearly he fears one day it may break him.  He kisses that smile and whispers, “And me? Do I make you glad?”

  
Norway tumbles him to his back, straddles his hips and takes Denmark’s face between his familiar, calloused palms. Denmark blinks into the sudden sunlight as Norway brings their lips together in a silent, thundering kiss that answers a resounding, vicious, _yes._


End file.
